


Distraction

by crowdedangels



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 07:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17240444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowdedangels/pseuds/crowdedangels
Summary: "Why are you still here?""Why are you bleeding?"





	Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-divorce. Nothing is mentioned to that fact but it being Walt and Vic, I felt it wouldn't have been before. Even if... y'know...
> 
> Anyway, Happy New Year folks and I hope 2019 brings only good things and manageable -if necessary- bad things. Thanks for the lovely reception to a fandom newbie!

He slammed the door to the Sheriff Office open, the anger caused by Mathias still alive and vibrating through his body. He hadn’t meant to take it out on the door but the thud against the wall was satisfying. 

 

“What the fuck, Walt!” 

 

He shifted the bloodied rag from his forehead and found Vic stood behind her desk with a hand on her gun and eyes wide in shock and annoyance.  

 

“Why are you still here?” It was past midnight, she was supposed to have left hours ago when he too was supposed to have left. Not end up on the res with that excuse for a cop and man and-

 

“Why are you bleeding?” Came her reply in the same clipped tone as his. She followed him into his office, hot on his tail though her annoyance was concern really.

 

“Why-”

 

“ _ Ah! _ I asked first. What the hell happened?”

 

He was trying to take off his coat but it was difficult to keep one hand to his head and shrug out of the sleeves. Vic stepped forward and shooed his hand away from the makeshift gauze and held it to the wound as he folded himself from his coat, stooping slightly for her ease. She lifted the rag to inspect the wound, muttering a “ _ shit, Walt _ ” at what she was sure would need stitches. 

 

“Mathias.”

 

“Say no more.” She relinquished the rag but stepped into his path when he tried to get to his desk. “Sit down.”

 

“I need-”

 

She had her hands on her hips, “Sit your ass down.”

 

He had the misguided notion that if he stared at her enough she might back down. Not Vic. He harrumphed down onto the couch while she retrieved a bottle of water and the first aid kit from her desk, opening it out onto his lap and taking the clean gauze first. 

 

With a few dabs, she removed the rag and threw it towards the bin. “This might need stitches.”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“Well the one who can actually  _ see  _ the wound says otherwise.”

 

She cleaned it up as best she could, enjoying the occasional hiss from the alcohol and antiseptic cleaners. She forced his head to tip onto the back of the couch and fiddled with the first butterfly stitch to apply to the wound. Manoeuvring the light, she leant her knee into the couch cushion at his hip to see where best to apply the stitch. Pressing a little too hard to ensure the adhesive stuck, Walt let out a held breath that fluttered across her face and brought her eyeline down to his lips. The lips that were so close to hers. The lips that she could so easily close the distance to. 

 

She swallowed and blinked a few times, refocusing herself onto the next stitch. Again with the hiss but this time her eyes found his. She could feel the warmth from his body, his long fingers smoothing around her hip in some feigned excuse for her stability or his pain relief. The air seemed to thicken, to heat around her though her skin paradoxically erupted in goosebumps.  She licked her lips, sliding her fingers into his hairline as she pressed her thumbs and the final stitch into his forehead. 

 

His eyes were firmly on her mouth, the kind of intensity he could give to the pages of one of his books, like he was drinking in everything he could and the entire world fell away.

 

She took the final dressing from his lap, her fingers brushing against his thigh for longer than was really necessary. She felt the flutter of his grip on her hip. 

 

It was just about stuck when he gripped her other leg, pulled it across his thighs so she straddled him and brushed the kit away, attaching his lips to hers in one fluid and smooth-as-fuck motion. 

 

She settled across him unceremoniously and surged into his kiss, her hands smoothing up his chest to his face. She cupped his cheek, the stubble scratching across her palms as she threaded them into his hair and around his neck. Her breath was stolen from the first kiss, like she reacted on muscle memory and shock. When her brain kicked back in, a quiet moan escaped with her exhale.

 

One of his hands was wrapped around her bicep while the other was under her shirt, his fingers splayed across her back and holding her to him.  Damn but he was a good kisser. “Walt…”

 

He tucked his hands under her knees, hitched her legs around his waist and rocked his full body into her so he could bring himself to his feet. A quiet but with much feeling  _ fuck _ left her as he carried her over to the door, holding her against the wooden pane with his hips and one hand, his lips on her collarbone while he twisted the lock. 

 

His mouth found hers again, his tongue quickly gaining entrance and cataloguing her teeth, the roof of her mouth, the tang of coffee that seemed synonymous with Vic Moretti. She moaned into his embrace, her fingers finding the collar to his shirt and pulling so the snaps came apart in a crescendo. Her hands immediately smoothed up his chest, entangling into the chest hair that teased her daily from his open collar and that had fuelled many a nocturnal wonderment since he had changed in the small, cramped bathroom that time. He smelled exactly the same from that brief exposure - spice, musk, sweat - and she suddenly realised she had engrained it to memory unbeknownst to her. 

 

She groaned at the realisation and he kept her pinned to the door with a thrust of his hips, sending her off balance and her head falling back at an onslaught of pleasure. She breathed his name, his lips on the column of her neck as he shrugged his arms from the shirt. “Walt…  _ Walt.” _ She was breathless, cupping his cheeks again and guiding his lips back to hers.  “Walt… the other door…” 

 

His large hands gripped her thighs and he carried her to the other door, sliding the lock for that one too as she tightening her legs around his waist so he could wrench his arms from his shirt. Helping to get it over his shoulders - then deciding she was definitely going to be biting into that flesh at some point in this encounter - she started to work on the buttons to her shirt. “Snaps” she breathed, Walt’s hand grasping onto her breast as he sucked at her neck, “I need a new uniform with snaps.”

 

He grabbed each side of her shirt and pulled, buttons tinkering to the wooden floor in all directions. “ _ Shit _ , Walt, I can't sew!”

 

He had that shit-eating grin, or smirk, or whatever the hell, that made her breath hitch. “You just said you wanted a new uniform,” he said, his voice hoarse like whisky soaked eroticism. “Old one broke.”

 

She laughed, swatting at his arm, “Dick.”

 

“Speaking of that…” he grabbed her knees again and spun them away from the wall, Vic laughing into another kiss as she stripped away her useless shirt and pulled the vest top over her head. 

 

She was sat down onto his desk, both pulling on boots, unbuttoning jeans, kicking off underwear. He slid his hand to her cheek, pulling her face to his for an unrelenting, desperate kiss as her legs went back around his waist. The humor had gone, only need and whimpers and expletives filling the air as wandering fingers checked she was ready, scooting her to right to edge, and filling her in one slow, smooth, delicious motion. 

 

They stilled, lips millimetres away, breaths mixing and eyes screwed shut. He faltered on his pull out, the sensation almost too much but the desire to sheath himself back inside her too strong. Her breath was punctuated by barely there moans, her fingers pressing deep into the tissue and muscles in his back and buttock. He thrusted into her again, slightly quicker but harder as he was buried to the hilt. Her teeth sunk into his shoulder, garnering a grunt of pleasure-pain as her hands encouraged him to repeat; faster,  _ harder, _ just like that,  _ fuck _

 

His hand kneaded her breast, massaging the cup before smoothing so her nipple was caught between the backs of two knuckles. He pulled, twisted, soothed, her hand sliding between them as he picked up a bruising pace that - ” _ fuck, Walt” -  _ was so good but just needed that edge that the angle wouldn't give. He rested his forehead against hers, watching as he slid into her and her fingers circled quickly over herself. “ _ Vic, _ ” he grunted, not knowing if it was a warning, a confirmation or an exaltation. 

 

Her breath panted against his cheek, the pitch of her moans going higher as her muscles quivered around him. He groaned into her shoulder, her name dragged out into multisyllables as his pace faltered, desperate, hitting something inside her that made her see stars and come hard enough to bring him along with her.  

 

He sagged into her; heavy, sweaty, spent.

 

She relished it, wrapping her arms around him and pressing into his flesh, kissing where her teeth had earlier bitten. 

 

He slid out of her and she involuntarily whimpered, almost embarrassed the noise would escape unchecked. 

 

“Are you okay?”

 

She nodded, her eyes still closed. “Y-” she cleared her throat and tried again. “You?” 

 

“Yep.”

 

Vic smiled, her eyes opened to see the mirth and ease in the blue looking back at her. Her breath hitched again at the sight, at the realisation of what they just did, and the content sigh that ran through her. 

 

He kissed her again, slowly this time. Passion and promise and  _ finally _ conveyed by his lips and tongue and soft hands on her face.

 

“Walt?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Don’t think this changes the fact that you need to get stitches for that cut.”

 

He started to laugh; really laugh. His eyes crinkled as he leant for another quick peck before escaping to the bathroom. She heard the water turn on and, a few beats later, he returned with a damp cloth and an ease in his shoulders she hadn't seen before. She cleaned up while he found and separated their clothes, picking up a couple of buttons he spotted on the way around his office. 

 

“I think your desk is fucked,” she grinned, swiping at the wet spot with the cloth.

 

He closed a few buttons on his shirt and watched her; it was going to be hell sitting at it in interrogations when all he would see and hear was her in his mind.

 

She zipped her jeans up, tucked in her vest top  and surveyed the room for any more evidence, not wanting to have a knowing look from Ruby first thing in the morning. “So…”

 

“So.” He smoothed his hand down her arm and pulled her into him again, lips and hands starting to travel the available skin. 

 

“We should get out of here.”

 

“Yep…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Amara d'Angeli for the snaps>poppers change! ;)


End file.
